The Fairy Godfather
by tielan
Summary: "I believe that what I said was, 'Who died and made you my fairy godfather'" "To which the answer was, of course, 'Me'"


**NOTES: **Another one in the 'Meeting Halfway' Steve/Maria series - 30 Days of OTP - "Dressing in a different clothing style"

**The Fairy Godfather**

Steve doesn't recognise her at first.

He blames the eyepatch Bucky made him wear into the party.

Or he could blame her dress – green as the sea and clinging as wet silk. He could blame her hair – twisted and curled and pinned in a fashion that somehow suits the bones of her face. Or the way she's sprawled on the chaise longue – actually _sprawled_ – in a boneless pose that would do a pin-up model proud. Or the fact that she's surrounded by a bevy of men who appear to be hanging off her every word – not one of whom has the faintest idea what she can do.

"I hate you," Bucky says conversationally after they've both picked their jaws up off the floor. "Although, on second thought, you're going to have to watch her all night without giving yourself away, so...maybe not."

There's a second when Steve wonders if he could really get away with playing the pirate and picking her up and carrying her off.

Except that ravishing would almost certainly be involved, and that wouldn't be conducive to keeping their relationship under wraps.

Steve follows Bucky in the opposite direction to the alcove where Maria is holding court, and allows himself to be introduced to assorted people, handed drinks, asked personal questions, and – in Bucky's case – flirt outrageously with various beautiful women.

Steve notes that Bucky stays well away from Natasha and Barton. Nat is dressed in something his mother or gran might have worn when she was a girl – blue gingham with a white apron, her hair in plaits. Barton is dressed like Steve's gramps, his face harmless as a farmboy, a broken slate hanging around his neck.

"You're taking this rather well on the surface," Stark remarks halfway through the night, an ubiquitous drink in his hand. "I surmise, however, that not all is well in the heart of Steve Rogers, seeing as you keep flexing your knuckles, your gaze can't seem to keep from watching Hill and her admirers for more than a few seconds at a time, and you're not listening to a word I'm saying."

Steve gives Stark a look. Somehow Stark still manages to give the impression of complete dissolution while wearing British tweed. "I never listen to anything you say."

"Ouch. Right in the ARC reactor." Stark slaps a hand over his chest, then hams up the double-take as he looks out across the room – or maybe doesn't ham it up after all. "Good God, they actually let Coulson out like that?"

The black suit, white shirt, and sunglasses are customary; the glittery pink fairy wings, plastic twinkly tiara, and pink, feather-tipped wand poking out of his shoulder harness are not.

"Rogers. Stark."

"Coming out of the closet, are we, Coulson?" Stark tilts his head. "Or allowed someone's granddaughter to dress you?"

Coulson is unbothered by the mockery. "A 'welcome back to the land of the living' gift, as a matter of fact. From Agent Hill."

Steve stares. A less-likely 'welcome back' gift from Maria he can hardly imagine. Stark nearly spits his drink. "_Hill_ gave you fairy wings and a tiara?"

"And a wand," says Maria, sauntering up to lean a casual elbow on Phil's shoulder. The pose is decidedly not Maria – languorous, sensual, wicked – as daring as the gown she's wearing, which clings and whispers and slides over her skin. Nor is the way she plucks Stark's drink out of his hand and drains it while Tony stares.

"That was my drink."

"And it was delicious. You sure know how to throw a party, Tony." She sets it on the tray of a waiter who wanders by and smiles at Stark, and Steve can practically see the blood draining out of Stark's big head.

He briefly revisits the idea of picking her up, throwing her over his shoulder, and storming out with his prize. Her eyes meet his and her mouth tilts a little as her chin lifts in what might be a challenge, even as her eyelid drops in a wink.

Stark manages to find his voice. And plucks a magnifying glass out of his inner pocket and peers through it at Maria. "Who are you, and what have you done with Lieutenant Hill?"

Maria smiles. "She's in here somewhere." The hand she runs down her front is distinctly provocative, drawing attention to the valley between her breasts. "Buried under a half-dozen of your excellent drinks, Stark. But I believe what I said to Coulson was 'who died and made you my fairy godfather?'"

"My answer was, of course, 'Me.'"

"The inexplicable humour of S.H.I.E.L.D," Stark replies. "So if he's the fairy godmother, does that mean you'll be running off at midnight, Lieutenant?"

"I'm on duty tomorrow morning." Maria shrugs and gives a glittering smile. "So, yes. Midnight or before. But until then, I have a roomful of hearts to break."

And with a smirk, she sashays off, almost absently collecting one of Stark's business colleagues by the tie and dragging him off while the group of people he's with roar with laughter.

Without a word to each other or even an exchanged look, Coulson and Stark step into the space Maria vacated, neatly blocking any attempt Steve might have made to go after her.

Not that he would.

"I'll behave," he tells them.

Stark lifts an eyebrow. Coulson lifts two. Steve goes looking for the buffet table.

Yes, he's jealous. But he knows what the price of showing that jealousy will be.

Steve's halfway into the apartment before he realises it's not empty.

He pauses at the door of the bedroom. Of course she's awake – she wouldn't be Maria if she wasn't wary, even in his space. "Aren't you on duty this morning?"

"I am," she says, her voice rough with sleep. "But I figure I owe you for tonight."

"You don't _owe_ me anything. Ever."

"Alright then." Maria sits up in the bed, and the faint light coming through the windows from the city outside show that she's still in the dress from the party. "I wanted you. Is that direct enough?"

He doesn't answer, and after a moment she sighs, dragging her fingers through her hair. "Steve, if you make me choose between you and the job…"

"Take the dress off." Steve's mouth is dry and his palms are hot. And he likes the way she stills when she hears what he's said, the tone of voice he's said it in: an order, not a request. He hopes her heart just kicked her in the ribs the way his did when he realised she was here – an apology given the only way she can. "Lieutenant."

Her fingers twitch, but she doesn't move to undress. Not yet. "Are you sure you want to do it this way, _Captain_?"

"You're the one who turned up in my bed. And," he adds with a faint smile as he leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms, waiting, "tonight I'm a pirate, not a superhero."

Maria's breathing has subtly but noticeably shortened. But she lifts her chin as she reaches behind her back for the zipper of her dress. The slow, steady sound of it sliding down her spine makes Steve's hands clench. The whisper-quiet slither of fabric across her skin hitches his breath. And the black lace of her underwear against the cream of her skin dries out his mouth.

She slides the dress off her hips, eases it over her stocking-clad legs as she pushes down the fabric and the linen sheets, exposing herself. She's wearing a garter belt and a pair of panties that are nothing more than a scrap covering her. In the shadows, her nipples are just visible at the lace edge of the bra as she leans forward to scoot herself to the edge of the bed.

Long legs curl out from beneath the sheets, and she stands slowly, allowing the dress to slip to the floor in a puddle of silk. Then she picks her way across the carpet in her stockinged feet, and tugs his mouth down to hers.

Steve resists for a moment – he still resents having to keep his distance all night – but she tilts her head back a little farther, inviting him in. And Steve takes what he's offered, harder than he initially intends, with one hand threaded through her hair, cupping her head.

He takes and tastes and teases, and when he lifts his mouth, her gaze is blurred and her lips swollen. Her voice isn't quite as crisp as she asks, "Are you still angry?"

"No," he tells her, trailing his palm down the length of her spine and watching her shiver. "I wasn't angry before, Maria. Just frustrated."

Maria skims her palm down over his belly, cupping the erection trapped beneath the fabric of his breeches. "So I see."

"Not that way. Not _just_ that way."

"There's no other way to do this—"

"Which is why I'm willing to play it like this." He interrupts her by leaning in to nuzzle her jaw, sliding his lips to her earlobe and sucking it delicately into his mouth. She shivers and her hands twitch. He presses himself into them, even as his hands cup and skim and rub. "I just don't _like_ it."

She sighs a little. "Steve—"

He knows she's about to say that this is what she has for him; he doesn't want to hear it. He knows what he can have – he's just scared that someday it won't be enough.

Steve shuts Maria up with another kiss. And another. And another. And another.

He shuts up his fear of losing her again, and his frustration that he can't be open about this relationship. He puts away his doubts for the future and focuses on the now.

Maybe someday he'll be too bitter to accept this. For now, it's enough to hustle her towards the bed, to let her stroke and grope and lick and suck. It's enough to lay her down on the bed and tease her through the lace and then without it – slick fingers on slick flesh. It's enough to kiss and gasp and grapple and thrust with her until she's incoherent with pleasure and so is he.

It's enough.

It's enough to sprawl on top of her afterwards, listening to her panting in his ear for nearly a minute before he realises something else.

"I've still got my boots on," he mumbles into her shoulder and feels her start shaking.

"Yes," she says, an echo of laughter in her voice. "Yes, you do"

**fin**


End file.
